


Armistice Day

by kmo



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Edith Crawley-mystery novelist!, Gen, Reconciliation, Sisterhood, post-season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary becomes a mother. Edith becomes a novelist. Becoming friends was much harder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Armistice Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bay/gifts).



Edith slammed her bedroom door shut, hot tears running down her face.

This was, without a doubt, the most insufferable, rotten, awful thing her sister had ever done.

Edith hated her.

How _dare_ she.

She fumbled for a pen and scrawled _We have a deal_ across a sheet of paper.

Mary was right. But Edith hated her anyway.

 

 _T_ _wo Hours Earlier_

 

Shortly before dinner, a maid (one of the new ones, Edith could hardly keep them straight anymore) knocked on her door and delivered a note from her sister on a fine silver tray. _The nursery, 6 o’clock_ was all that was written in Mary’s precise calligraphy. Edith balled the creamy paper in her gloved fist. She hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to her sister since Matthew’s funeral six months before. On that occasion, she had committed the unpardonable crime of daring to offer her widowed sister sympathy. Their conversation was written in her memory in indelible ink; she couldn’t forget it if she tried.

 _“I know how terrible things must feel right now. When Sir Anthony broke our engagement, I thought my world was ending, too. But it didn’t. You’ll see,” she had told her, trying to comfort her the only way she knew how._

_Doctor Clarkson had prescribed laudanum for Mary, to help with the shock. In that moment, her sister’s deep brown eyes lost their drugged haze and focused on Edith with a basilisk-like stare. “If you’re going to spout nonsense, Edith, I’d rather you not speak to me at all. I have lost my husband and the father of my child. You getting left at the altar by that doddering old cripple is nothing,” she spat._

_Edith’s cheeks flushed cherry red._ Matthew is better off dead than married to a shrew like you _was the choice retort that came to mind._ _The spiteful words hung there on the edge of her lips, burning. She forced herself to swallow them. “Let’s not speak then,” she choked out, turned on her heel and left._

The  two sisters had maintained their stubborn silence for months. Edith couldn’t imagine what Mary wanted with her. She indulged herself for a moment, as she had since she was a child, and imagined it might actually be an apology. But one might very well wish for the moon as to expect an apology from Mary. There were times Edith doubted that the words “I’m sorry” were even in her elder sister’s vocabulary.

Without knocking, Edith opened the nursery door. Mary was sitting by the window holding baby George in her lap. Her sister was dressed smartly in a day dress of black lace that went well with her ivory skin and dark hair. Grief became Mary. As did spite, amusement, joy, and every other emotion, Edith thought bitterly. She cleared her throat. “Whatever do you want with me?” 

“It’s nice to see you, too,” her sister said, no small amount of sarcasm in her voice.

Edith took a seat without it being offered. Two could play at this game. “Oh, so we’re making small talk now?”

“I thought you might like to see your nephew. George, say hello to Aunt Edith.” Little George gurgled at his mother and she smiled back at him indulgently.

 Edith’s heart did melt a little at that; she _had_ been longing to see the little fellow. “He’s grown so much since the last time I saw him.”

“Well, babies have a tendency to do that when you’re not around. You’ve been keeping very busy in London.”

It had all the appearances of a neutral statement, but Edith knew her sister’s tactics. “My column has been very popular. I find it easier to write there.”

 “George, your dear Aunt Edith has always been a rotten liar. I hope you shall never pick up the habit.” A cruel accident may have taken her husband from her, but Mary still maintained a steely strength. As much as she disliked her sister, it cheered Edith in an odd way to see that widowhood had not changed Mary overmuch. “I heard you asked Papa to advance you some of your inheritance so that you could buy a flat,” Mary offered.

Edith colored. She had asked and her father and he had rejected her proposal outright. No daughter of the Earl of Grantham would live unchaperoned in the city. “I did. What of it? The money would have been settled on me years ago if I had married. It’s only fair,” Edith said. The unspoken sentiment, _and since I am unlikely to ever marry, what’s the point?_

Mary turned her dark gaze on her. “I think I could persuade him to let you.” A beat. “ _If_ you wanted me to.”

“Why on earth would you bother?”

Her sister gave a queenly shrug and looked away. “Consider it a peace offering.”

Edith was stymied. “Well…you’re welcome to try, I suppose.”

“I do have one condition."  

Of course any offer of help from Mary would have strings attached. "What, pray tell, is that?” Edith asked, barely bothering to contain her exasperation.

“You need to break it off with this editor of yours, Gregson,” Mary told her mercilessly.

“What?!? You can’t be serious. I’m not going to let you dictate my life!”

“Edith, for heaven’s sake, he’s _married_.”

“To a woman who’s been committed to a madhouse and can never be a real wife to him!” Edith protested. “You don’t understand—I don’t know how you even found out about this…”

“I understand perfectly well. I hired a private detective,” Mary said, all too pleased with herself, "and he told me everything about you and Gregson.”

“Are you going to tell mama and papa?”

“I _should_ ,” Mary muttered. “It’s no business of mine if you want to keep playing Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester with your editor. But I won’t make it easier for you to carry on with him—which is I suspect your real reason for wanting to buy a flat in London.”

Mary always had a knack for taking something that Edith thought beautiful and tarnishing it right before her eyes. “You make it all sound so tawdry. Michael wants to be with me and I want to be with him. We enjoy each other,” Edith pleaded, half to Mary and half to herself.

Her sister gathered George closer to her breast and sighed. “Look to your future, Edith. How long is this really sustainable? You might be willing to forgo marriage to this man, but are you willing to give up children? Papa might tolerate a chauffeur for a son-in-law, but he would never condone you becoming an unwed mother.”

Mary’s cold words shocked her, left her bruised and winded. Edith stole a glance at little George, his small fingers tightly curled around his mother’s collar. Was she willing to be only “Aunt Edith” and never “mother?” She didn’t know. “I…I’ll think about it,” was all she finally said.

Her sister frowned at her. “First Anthony Strallan and now a married man. If you only expect second-best for yourself that is all you are ever going to get.”

Edith let out a hollow bark of laughter. “Oh, that is rich coming from you, who’s been beating off the beaux with a stick since you made your debut. If you haven’t noticed, there aren’t many whole and hearty men left to choose from.” _It might not be so easy for you now_ , was the unkind thought Edith left unsaid _._   

“I have noticed. You might not think you can do better for yourself, but _I_ do,” her sister told her firmly.

At that Edith left the room, incensed and on the verge of tears. She spent the better part of a week puzzling over whether her sister's parting words were an insult or Mary’s odd idea of a compliment.

**** 

Edith boarded the 1:15 p.m. train back to London, grateful to have a first-class compartment all to herself in which to think over the strange events that had transpired. That morning after breakfast her father had taken her aside and told her he had reconsidered her request to buy a flat. Although he was not especially pleased to have a daughter living alone in London, he admitted that she was a grown woman and had a right to do as she pleased with her money. He promised to call his agent and ask him to begin looking at suitable properties in respectable neighborhoods. “Not Bloomsbury. I won’t have you cavorting about with a bunch of depraved Bohemians,” he had warned her with a scowl. Overjoyed at his change of heart, Edith had readily accepted his conditions.

Now, alone in her compartment, Edith wondered what on earth Mary could possibly have said to make him reconsider—she half-suspected blackmail. Edith had been in turns angry with and jealous of her elder sister as long as she could remember. It was strange to feel a twinge of gratitude after all these years. Edith recalled Mary’s condition and felt it like a lead weight in her heart. Well, she wasn’t entirely grateful for Mary’s interference.

She removed her wool cloche and let her head rest against the cool window glass. The English countryside raced past her in a blur of green and gold. Mary had only bluntly spoken the truth that she herself had been afraid to admit. She didn’t love Michael, truly. Oh, she loved that he _loved_ her, wanted her, she who had always been overshadowed by Mary’s icy perfection and Sybil’s smoldering beauty. But did she love him with the earth-shattering love the poets write about? No, she didn’t. They were on a track straight to nowhere. There was no possible future until his wife died. Edith shuddered to think her future happiness now hinged on some poor woman’s death.

The thought of giving him up, of going back out into the world as a single woman with no sweetheart was just too much. Yet, as long as she was with Michael, Edith was unlikely to meet anyone else. She was caught in a trap of her own making.

God, she hated it when Mary was right.

Edith closed her eyes and leaned back against the leather of her seat. Maybe she really had always been settling for second-best. Patrick had been her sister’s intended. Followed by Anthony Strallan, older than her father and wounded besides. Then, her most shameful hour, the farmer, also married. And finally Michael—a thoughtful, charming man who could never legally marry her or be a father to her children. If romance was a cricket match, her score would surely be in the negative digits.

Mary believed she could do better. Edith imagined for a moment what a “better” sort of man might look like. Tall with a slim build. Closer to her own age. Light eyes- brown eyes always reminded her too much of Mary.  Clever, but modest. _Not married._  Wealthy enough to make her parents happy, but not so wealthy as to be a spoiled man of leisure.

Perhaps a man with an interesting profession...a journalist? No. Edith knew too many journalists- they were no longer glamorous to her. Someone just a bit daring…like a detective. Very dashing.  She smiled.

Suddenly, a flash of inspiration hit Edith with the precision of a lightning strike. She rummaged in her purse for a notepad and pen and started to write.

She didn’t stop until the conductor announced their arrival at King’s Cross.

*****

A month later, Edith found herself nervously perched on the edge of a wooden chair as a London publisher thumbed through the pages of her neatly typed manuscript. He was a friend of Michael’s. She had done her best to let her ex-lover down gently—and he in turn had offered to assist her in her latest endeavor, perhaps in hope that Edith would change her mind. She was grateful for his assistance, but knew she wouldn’t. All the more reason she needed to publish this novel. Continuing to write for the paper edited by her former paramour had become awkward to say the least.

Hamilton, the publisher, let out a slight “Ah!” of astonishment and looked up from the manuscript with a pleased expression on his ruddy face. “This is good stuff you’ve got here, Lady Crawley. The detective—Patrick Cavendish—practically leaps off the page. Bit of a fop, but he’s got some layers. The story is well-plotted, too, especially for a first timer. Your murderess, Lady Margaret, was a bit on the one-note side, but readers don’t usually look too closely at the villain’s motivations in these sorts of novels.” He took a long drag off of his cigar. Edith’s heart raced as she waited him to pronounce judgment. “Detective stories have been quite popular since the war. I think yours would make a fine addition to our imprint.”

Edith could have kissed him, but she reminded herself she was no longer throwing herself at older married men. She settled for a dignified but enthusiastic, “Oh, thank you, Mr. Hamilton! You won’t regret it.”

“Are you sure I can’t persuade you to publish under your own name? An earl’s daughter, writing mystery stories—it would be quite the hook, create a bit of publicity. I’d be willing to advance you more,” he hinted suggestively.

“Mr. Hamilton, my family is generally of the opinion that a woman’s name should only appear in print three times: birth, marriage, and death.” Edith gave a slight shudder as she imagined Granny’s reaction to _Diplomacy Is Murder—A Patrick Cavendish Mystery by Lady Edith A. Crawley_. “Just E.A. Pendleton, if you please.”

Hamilton shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He opened a drawer and withdrew a checkbook. He signed the check with a broad flourish. “Here you go, Lady Crawley, for the first one and advance on the next.”

Edith left the publishing house giddy with accomplishment. The money was nice, but the principle of the thing was far more valuable to her. She was no longer Edith Crawley, hapless lover of a married man and spinster aunt. She was E.A. Pendleton, soon-to-be-published novelist. Her mouth quirked a little. She had poured all her frustrated longing, everything she had ever wished for in a man into the character of Lord Patrick Cavendish, younger son of a peer and amateur sleuth. Funny how this imaginary man had served her better than any flesh-and-blood suitor ever had.  

*****

Edith waited with barely contained impatience as Mary instructed the nursemaid as to the care of her son. The poor girl couldn’t have been more than eighteen and looked absolutely terrified of her mistress. Edith shot her a look of sympathy. “And make sure he doesn’t get too much sun. It gives him a rash. I’ll see you back at the house after I’ve finished here.” Mary bent down and gave George a tender kiss on his forehead. “I’ll see you soon, my little love,” she whispered in his ear. 

Mary watched the nursemaid cross the street with George in his pram with a kind of longing on her face. What Edith had seen as sternness was really just concern. More and more, she was beginning to realize her characterization of her sister had been very "one note" indeed.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine without you,” Edith told her sister gently.

“I know. But I hate to see him go all the same.” Her gaze wandered. She said in a tone that tried to be casual but was anything but: “He’s all I have left of his father.” 

Edith remembered the last time they had spoken of Matthew and how disastrously it had all ended. She changed the subject. “Let me show you the rest of the flat and then we can have tea. I had some of those strawberry tarts you like sent over from Claridge’s.”

It wasn’t a very long tour, as Edith’s flat boasted only two bedrooms plus a study which she used for her writing. She was very proud of the pistachio carpet and the pale mustard-colored drapes she had picked out for the sitting room. “What do you think?” she asked, as they sat down to tea.

Mary looked for a moment as if she was about to say something cutting but thought the better of it. “It’s very… _you_ ,” she said finally.

Another one of Mary’s compliments that wasn’t quite a compliment at all. “Well…I realize it’s not Aunt Rosamund’s house in Eaton Square, but it suits me.” Edith helped herself to a scone, then asked, “By the way, I’ve always wondered,  however did you convince Papa to let me buy it?" 

Mary set down her tea cup and turned her dark gaze upon Edith. “I told him it’s what Sybil would have wanted.”

“That was your trump card?”

“Yes,” Mary said simply. “I think in spite of himself, he doesn’t want Sybil’s dreams to have died with her. And neither do I.”

Sybil had always dreamed of breaking away from Downton Abbey, of being independent and a part of something larger than herself. And she had made her dreams come true in a way, though she had precious little time to enjoy them. Edith felt sad and suspicious all at once; she didn’t appreciate having her younger sister’s cast-off ambitions being foisted onto her. “So, you did it for Sybil, not for me,” she said sourly.

Her sister’s face took on a look of weary annoyance. “Oh, that all came out wrong, I suppose. Yes and no.” Mary exhaled a deep breath. “Remember, that horrible time after Sybil died and you asked if we might try to be friends in the future and I said no?” Edith nodded; how could she forget? Another disaster. “I was angry…not at you, at the world, at God…for taking my sister away. I’m still angry.” Mary’s lambent eyes had taken on a distinctively shiny cast. “But I’ve come to realize that Sybil would have wanted us to be friends. And Matthew would have, too.” She gave a little half-broken smile. “You know, he admired you so when you started writing your column. It made me slightly jealous.”

Edith laughed, though by now there were tears trickling down her face, too. She had made Mary jealous at last; somehow it was not as satisfying as she had expected. “Well. I don’t know if he would admire me as much as a mystery novelist.”

“He might,” Mary said coyly. “Though the plot about the Greek ambassador’s son being poisoned by an heiress at a country house party was a bit too much of art imitating life for my taste.”

“I’m sorry,” Edith said and meant it.

“I accept. Just don’t go scavenging my romantic failures for any future novels.”

“I won’t. I promise. Heaven knows, I have plenty of failures of my own to mine for inspiration,” Edith said in a self-deprecating tone.

“Before I forget, a Captain Donovan stopped by the house the other week. He convalesced at Downton after the war. He specifically asked after you.”

Edith thought for a moment. Captain Donovan…sandy brown hair and a leg injury? There were so many injured soldiers, it was hard to recall his face. “I think I remember him. He liked me to read Dickens to him.”

“I think you should write to him,” Mary said and slid a piece of paper across the table. “He seemed like a very…fine man.”

“Oh, Granny’s bad enough. I don’t need you to start husband-hunting for me, too!” Edith protested.

“Don’t you?” Mary asked with a hint of her old imperiousness. “I’m just saying, he came all that way. I think he very much wanted to see you.”

Edith glanced at the paper. “It wouldn’t hurt to drop him a line I suppose.”

“Good girl.” Mary patted her hand. “Now, tell me all about your next book. Does Lord Patrick ever marry Enid Dempsey?”

Edith beamed, the first genuine smile she could remember smiling at Mary in a very long time, and launched in to her tale. "Well, you see Lord Patrick hires this footman with a terrible secret..."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Edith's career as a mystery novelist and her fictional creation, Lord Patrick Cavendish, was inspired by Dorothy L. Sayers' Lord Peter Wimsey novels, which came out in the 20s. Many of Sayers' contemporaries accused her of creating in her hero the lover she lacked in her actual life. I hold out hope that Edith might still become a novelist some day.


End file.
